< 


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GIFT  OF 
Professor   B. II. Lehman 


(AKICHI  HARTMANN 
[Y  RUBAIYAT 


THIRD  REVISED  EDITION 
SAN  FRANCISCO 
1916 


SADAKICHI  HARTMANN 
MY  RUBAIYAT 


THIRD  REVISED  EDITION 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

1916 


To  Dunbar  Wright,  a  traveler  among  Men,  who 
"in  his  own  way  courts  the  sun  and  fashions  Ar 
cadia  of  passing  winds  and  flying  clouds." 


:  •:  ••:  •••••*'    **  /•. .  • 
;  ..••.•:'..•   ::••••••• 


Copyright,  1916,  by  Sadakichi  Hartmann 


INSTEAD  OF  A  PREFACE: 

William  Marion  Reedy, 
St.  Louis  Mirror: 

I  will  drop  the  mask  and  tell  you  the  secret  of  my  verses. 
You  say  they  impress  you  as  being  uneven  and  unfinished.  I 
heartily  agree  with  you.  As  I  have  stated  in  my  announcement 
to  the  public,  a  poem  of  the  scope  and  range  of  "My  R'ubaiyat" 
is  never  complete.  No  doubt,  it  will  undergo  many  changes 
within  the  next  ten  years.  I  say  ten  years  deliberately.  You 
see,  I  possess  the  arrogance  of  conviction.  I  believe  it  will 
survive,  simply  because  it  strikes  a  popular  chord,  and  attempts, 
no  matter  how  vaguely,  to  reproduce  a  broken  melody  that  hums 
in  every  mind.  Somebody  else  may  venture  forth  on  similar 
paths  and  succeed  to  please  even  the  fastidious  in  rhyme.  "My 
Rubaiyat"  may  be  put  on  the  back  shelves.  Well,  we  will  see. 
I  look  at  my  work  with  objective  eyes.  It  is  a  mere  youngster 
now.  It  will  grow  and  nobody  will  watch  its  growth  with  keener 
appreciation  than  I  myself.  The  number  of  verses  will  not  in 
crease,  but  I  sincerely  hope  that  they  will  gain  in  clarity  and 
strength  as  well  as  in  musical  and  pictorial  wealth  of  expression. 

As  for  versification,  let  me  make  this  explanation.  I  chose  the 
eight  syllable  stanza  on  account  of  its  terseness  of  expression.  It 
is  least  pliable  to  any  rush  and  swing  of  rhythm,  but  most  con 
ducive  to  the  conveyance  of  fragmentary  moods  and  thoughts. 
The  omission  of  rhyme  I  essayed  for  no  other  reason  than  its 
technical  difficulty.  To  make  rhymeless  lines  read  like  a  poem 
is  the  most  laborious  task  a  songsmith  can  set  himself.  It  is  the 
vanity  of  the  alien  to  show  his  mastery  over  a  language  that  was 
neither  his  father's  nor  his  mother's  tongue.  But  I  object  to 
your  statement  that  I  disdain  rhythm.  I  have  a  vague  suspicion 
that  you  really  mean  meter.  My  meter  is  rough  and  wilful  and 
subject  to  impurities,  as  for  instance  counting  the  last  two  sylla 
bles  in  words  like  "happier"  and  "sunnier"  either  as  one  or  two, 
just  as  my  fancy,  or  rather  my  appreciation  of  rhythm,  dictates. 
My  rhythm  changes  constantly  but  it  is  palpable,  underneath  as 
it  were,  at  all  times.  I  have  some  experience  as  a  reader  (though 
elocutionists  may  shrug  their  shoulders  at  my  style  of  interpre 
tation—let  them  shrug)  and  I  have,  whenever  I  write,  the  habit  of 
reading  aloud  the  words  as  I  put  them  down.  Reading  means  to 
get  a  certain  sense  and  swing,  color  and  sound  in  the  words  as 
one  utters  them.  If  my  verses  contain  this  possibility  of  aural 
gratification  they  cannot  be  utterly  devoid  of  rhythm.  No  doubt 
my  sense  of  sound  alliteration  is  foreign,  unconsciously  Orien 
tal.  I  feel  a  sound  relation,  no,  even  a  rhyme  suggestion  in 


856957 


words  like  "chance"  and  "spring,"  "herd"  and  "feet"  at  the  end 
of  succeeding  stanzas.  The  alliteration  of  Japanese  poets 
is  much  subtler  (due  to  the  peculiarities  of  the  language)  than 
the  word  music  of  our  Laniers  and  Whitmans,  although  it  is 
never  conducted  with  the  elaborate  precision  of  a  Poe  or  Swin 
burne.  It  always  remains  fragmentary,  it  rarely  resembles  full 
orchestration.  Also  my  lines  lack  the  merit  of  contrapuntal 
structure.  Yet  they  have  one  quality  which  is  generally  over 
looked.  They  possess  pictorial  harmony.  My  long  and  persistent 
association  with  art  makes  me  not  only  see  but  think  things  in 
pictures.  Pictures  abound  throughout  "My  Rubaiyat"  for  all 
who  have  the  mental  pictorial  vision  to  see  them.  Lines  like  "turn 
phantoms  with  the  colder  morn"  and  "in  a  hilltown  among 
roses"  are  as  concentrated  as  any  image  that  can  be  found  in  a 
tanka  (i.  e.  Japanese  short  poem). 

Critics  may  contend  that  pictorial  suggestion  per  sc,  as  the 
main  characteristic  of  a  poem,  does  not  conform  to  the  accepted 
forms  of  poetry.  This  objection  is  meaningless  to  me.  Without 
the  spirit  of  innovation  there  would  have  been  no  incentive  to 
write  the  poem.  Like  the  composers  of  the  day  I  believe  in 
the  old  ideals  but  in  new  methods  of  expression. 

My  ambition  was  to  write  a  simple  poem  which  would  appeal 
to  all;  to  chambermaids  as  well  as  cognoscenti,  ordinary  busi 
ness  men  as  well  as  solitary  artistic  souls.  Who  will  decide 
whether  I  have  succeeded  or  failed?  Only  the  public  at  large. 
The  poem,  no  doubt,  is  too  didactic  for  fragile  aesthetics  who 
glorify  naught  but  evanescent  words,  but  it  is  surely  no  short 
coming  to  try  to  express  thought.  Even  exponents  of  the  mod 
ern  schools  attempt  this — occasionally.  The  way  of  expression 
is  a  different  matter.  It  is  open  to  criticism.  But  excuses  that 
a  critic  knows  nothing  about  a  certain  subject,  and  vet  at  the 
same  time  deliberate  pricks  at  this  very  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  his 
ignorance  are  sad  to  contemplate.  Rhyme  is  surely  out  of  date. 
And  the  supposed  lack  of  rhythm  is  merely  imaginary.  Would 
you  enjoy  Japanese  or  Chinese  music?  Very  likely  not  and  yet 
they  contain  as  fine  a  rhythm  and  as  musical  a  quality  as  any 
modern  composition.  Only  they  are  vaguer,  subtle,  different. 

And  on  this  difference  hinges  all  logical  and  evasive  argu 
ment.  The  practical  philosophy  contained  in  "My  Rubaiyat,"  of 
course,  can  be  attacked  for  being  non-moral  or  non-religious, 
but  the  technique  of  the  poem  can  be  discussed  only  from  one 
viewpoint. 

Sincerely  yours, 

SADAKICHI  HARTMANN. 


6 


M          Y  R          U          B          A          I  ;     ;    Y          A 


What  should  we  dream,  what  should  we  say, 

On  this  drear  day,  in  this  sad  clime ! 

In  the  garden  the  asters  fade, 

Smoke   of  weed-fires   blurs   the   plain, 

The  hours  pass  with  a  sullen  grace — 

Can  we  be  gay  when  skies  are  grey! 

II. 

Would  joy  prove  a  more  steady  guest, 
In  palm-girt,  sunnier  Southern  lands, 
Some  lambient  world  of  green  and  gold 
Fanned  by  the  charm  of  Orient  lay! 
'Tis  vain  delusion  thus  to  think 
That  life  will  change  with  change  of  scene. 

III. 

Man  cannot  get  away  from  facts — 
Alas,  stern  duty  looms  supreme, 
For  certain  things  we  must  perform, 
Obey  the  inward  voices'  call. 
Calm  joyous  days  cannot  be  wooed 
Unless  our  conscience  is  at  peace. 

IV. 

Life  is  to  most  a  weary  task, 
A  ceaseless  strife  for  daily  bread, 
We  cannot  act  as  we  would  like, 
We  cannot  gain  for  what  we  strive. 
To  bear  the  burden  cheerfully 
Is  all  this  earth  allows  to  us. 

V. 

Our  tired  soul  with  faint  forced  smile 

But  rarely  scales  the  loftier  themes, 

Fair  Hafiz  and  Anacreon 

Have  they  drunk,  laughed  and  sung  in  vain ! 

Do  grove  and  grange  no  longer  yield 

The  idyls  of  Theocritus ! 


SADAKICHI        HARTMANN 


•Was  "man"  6fite  happier  than  now  ? 
Who  is  there  to  tell  the  story 
Of  slaves  or  Cesars  of  the  past? 
Still  our  blood  is  stirred  each  spring, 
Still  books  and  music  make  us  dream, 
Why  mourn  the  "snows  of  yesteryear?" 

VII. 

There  were  ever  some  more  favored 
Who  care-free  basked  in  fortune's  sun. 
The  rest  did  toil.    And  you  and  I? 
We  hear  the  same  recurrent  rhymes, 
Like  changing  seasons,  night  and  day, 
We  simply  come,  sojourn,  and  go. 

VIII. 

We  enter  the  world  unbidden, 
Plod  along  roads  as  we  know  best. 
One  is  born  rich,  the  other  poor, 
Who  knows  what  helps  a  mortal  most. 
Ere  sleep  we  rub  from  our  eyes 
We  are  forever  what  we  are. 

IX. 

The  laughter  of  childhood  is  gone, 
The  toy  castles  we  built  are  lost — 
Can  we  jedeem  in  future  days 
The  disappointments  of  the  past ! 
Our  nursery  songs  will  they  change 
Into  jubilant  songs  of  love! 

X. 

lyight-headed   youth,  all   smiles   around 
In  dew-drenched  gardens  of  spring  morns 
No  heed  takes  of  the  dial's  stealth. 
Youth  wants  to  conquer — rule  the  spheres, 
While  the  sun  runs  his  ruthless  course 
And  shadows  begin  to  lengthen. 


MY  R         U 


XI. 

In  open  woods  some  summer  night, 
The  sound  of  the  wind  in  the  leaves — 
Two  vagrant  lovers  hand  in  hand — 
O'er  treetops   the   errant   moon. 
Oh,  this  mad  desire  to  possess! 
To  waste  the  soul  on  blood-red  lips. 

XII. 

Sex  is  a  power  all  cherish, 

We  worship  it  on  bended  knees, 

Like  old  wine  it  yields  the  magic 

Of  oblivion  and  ecstasies, 

The  moments  drift  on  golden  clouds 

To  regions  of  the  white  beyond. 

XIII. 

Alas,  that  pleasures  never  last, 
That  we  must  leave  the  fairy  woods 
And  pass  along  the  great  highway. 
As  much  as  horizons  may  beckon, 
They  flee  us  the  more  we  pursue 
To  distances  we  ne'er  can  reach. 

XIV. 

The  more  we  give  the  less  we  gain — 
This  is  a  bitter  truth  to  tell. 
Yet  passion  is  a  fleeting  thing 
As  flowers  wane  in  summer's  heat, 
Thus  eager  kisses,  thigh  to  thigh 
Turn  phantoms  with  the  colder  morn. 

XV. 

Why  had  you,  dearest,  to  leave  me ! 
Why  must  friend  from  friend  depart. 
Perchance,  I  shall  find  the  answer 
Midst  howling  winds  and  rain 
Where  sombre  forests  sway  and  moan 
And  lightnings  stir  the  darkest  lairs. 


SADAKICHI       HART    MANN 


XVI. 

Few  think  they  can  give  without  gain, 
They  attempt  to  barter  with  love. 
Love  comes,  it  is  here,  it  departs 
Leaving  wet  eyes  and  broken  hearts. 
How  when  we  are  young  can  we  guess : 
Love's  winter  ne'er  returns  to  spring. 

XVII. 

Love  is  a  growth,  a  wondrous  plant 
That  scatters  its  seed-pods  unseen, 
That  sheds  rarest  unknown  delights 
To  those  few  that  worship  the  dream. 
For  love  squanders  all  its  treasures, 
Why  should  it  ask  for  a  return? 

XVIII. 

When  youth  departs,  when  love  grows  dim, 

To  grey  routine  hope  dwindles  down, 

Sup  well,  sit  warm,  drink  deep,  sleep  sound, 

Thus  run  the  hours  from  the  glass. 

New  vistas  beckon  here  and  there 

Yet  men  stay,  sullen,  where  they  are. 

XIX. 

Oh,  to  escape  from  the  city, 
Into  the  blue,  shimmering  night, 
It  speaks  of  all  I  could  have  loved, 
It  speaks  of  all  I  longed  to  see, 
To  understand,  to  own,  and  feel — 
Why  did  so  little  come  to  me! 

XX. 

Ah,  my  fate  is  not  different, 
It  is   like  that  of  all  the  rest. 
There  grew  flowers  at  the  wayside — 
They  were  mine.     I  did  not  cull  them. 
There  were  chances  made  for  blessing 
When  both  of  us  remained  unblessed. 


10 


MY  R         U 


XXI. 

Can  a  being  ever  be  yours? 
Do  you  know  the  thoughts  of  a  friend? 
Why  stray  your  wishes  to  strangers 
When  you  own  a  heart  that  is  true? 
Sunlight  passes.     The  night  draws  near. 
Have  you  been  loyal  to  anyone? 

XXII. 

We  reap  the  harvest  that  we  sow. 
Rich  crops  may  sear  in  rainless  heat 
Waste  over  night  by  wind  or  frost — 
Harsh  laws  of  chance  and  circumstance ! 
Yet  if  your  seeds  were  vain  as  chaff 
Your  own  will  never  come  to  you. 

XXIII. 

Let  me  pass  on  to  the  seashore, 
Watch  the  traverse  of  white  sails, 
The  seagulls  in  their  spiral  flight, 
The  breakers  that  brighten  the  waves, 
And  as  in  rambles  of  boyhood 
Fling  pebbles  out  into  the  sea. 

XXIV. 

They  skip  o'er  the  gleaming  surface, 

They  sink  and  vanish  from  sight 

As  all  that  abides  on  this  earth. 

Yet   on    the    surface    like    stray   thought, 

Each    ripple   owns   an   inner   sway 

And  wave-like  stirs  the  azure  brine. 

XXV. 

The  circle  widens,  travels  farther, 

With  each  emotion  keenly  felt 

Onward  it  pushes   'cross  the  waves 

Of  storm-lashed  oceans  to  unbend 

Its  tide  of  beauty  on  the  shore 

Of  some  hope-swept  and  sun-kissed  isle. 


11 


SADAKICHI        HARTMANN 


XXVI. 

And  there  amidst  some  rarer  air 
To  blossom  forth  in  some  great  deed — 
May  it  be  done  by  hand  or  mind — 
For  the  upheaval  of  the  race, 
To  reach  some  pinnacle  of  truth 
Where  light  envelops  you  and  all. 

XXVII. 

This  is  the  land  where  giant  minds, 
Vaster  than  light,  vaster  than  space 
Hear  whisperings  of  the   infinite, 
And  with  proud  sorrow  in  their  eyes, 
Their  wild-maned  coursers  ever  ready, 
Soar  far  into  the  skies  of  thought. 

XXVIII. 

Yet  who  can  follow  flights  like  these, 

Who  plucks  the  stars  from  night's  blue  vault ! 

Imagination,  sluggish  thing, 

Will  not  obey  the  gayer  moods, 

Our  mind  can  only  peer  as  far 

As  fate  has  lent  it  eyes  to  see. 

XXIX. 

Men  do  not  think,  they  merely  dream, 
They  only  long  for  crude,  rough  things, 
Madly  chasing  will-o'-the-wisps, 
Success  by  force  they  try  to  grasp, 
It  lures  them  on  to  wilder  scenes 
Where  wolves  in  packs  hunt  dismal  prey. 

XXX. 

Why  this  dull  haste,  this  sordid  waste 

Of  youth  and  manhood's  fullest  powers? 

To  amass  riches  for  your  heirs 

The  highest  interests  seem  low, 

And  no  man's  pelf  does  command  health, 

Nor  can  it  hold  friendship  or  love. 


12 


MY  RUBAIYAT 


XXXI. 

So  many  do  as  others  do, 

They  cannot  rise  from  the  green  mould 

With  which  their  thoughts  are  overgrown. 

For  them  no  lotus  petals  blow, 

They  peevish  bow  to  any  yoke, 

And  mole-like  dig  beneath  the  ground. 

XXXII. 

Thus  people  born  in  low  estate 
Must  drag  their  burden  day  by  day, 
Tis  hard  to  mend  what  is  inborn 
And  slow  the  lift  to  higher  planes. 
If  drudgery  rules  from  morn  to  night — 
They  needs  must  suffer  earthly  bane. 

XXXIII. 

They  stir  the  coals,  press  the  bellows — 
White  iron  shimmers  in  the  forge 
The  air  is  dust,  the  houses  black, 
Smoke  dragons  coil  'round  culm  and  stack 
And  belch  foul  breath  into  the  street. 
Where  is  the  sun?     Has  day  turned  night? 

XXXIV. 

What  use  to  speak  to  serfs  like  these 
Of  odors  sweet  of  new-mown  hay, 
Red  and  blue  flowers  in  the  wheat, 
The  old  homestead,  barns  and  stables, 
Cows  shambling  home  the  sunset  road — 
The  angelus  over  harvest  fields. 

XXXV. 

There's  joy  in  labor ;  so  they  say, 
And  well  that  its  praises  are  sung, 
Or  mankind  in  pale-mouthed  despair 
Would  leave  factory,  forge  and  shop, 
Stead  living  through  their  daily  toil 
Without  a  thought  that  death  is  near. 


13 


SADAKICHI        HARTMANN 


XXXVI. 

Afraid  of  death  men  do  not  think 
Of  their  vague  meaning  on  this  earth. 
Blindly  they  hope  for  after-bliss 
Or  sneer  at  things  they  can  not  guess, 
For  is  not  death  the  cause  of  all 
That  ever  troubled  human  brains! 

XXXVII. 

Why  do  we  live,  why  do  we  hope, 
Why  does  this  world  exist  at  all ! 
How  do  we  dare  to  love  and  mate 
When  every  path  is  strewn  with  thorns, 
When  children  share  in  our  fate 
And  age  is  glad  to  greet  the  night ! 

XXXVIII. 

And  is  it  endless  sleep  and  night. 
Deliverance  or  new  keen  pain  ? 
Hot  pitch  or  stale  ambrosia! 
There  are  too  many  gods  adored, 
Can  one  be  right,  all  others  wrong — 
Who  solves  the  problem  why  we  are? 

XXXIX. 

There  is  no  answer  to  the  quest, 
Who  knows  where  we  will  meet  again ! 
The  star  realms  opening  at  night 
Tell  us  of  other  wonder  worlds — 
Are  they  spinning  through  space  for  us, 
Shall  we  breathe  there  an  ampler  air? 

XL. 

Follow  yon  pilgrims  of  the  East 
Through  avenues  of  cypress  dim, 
Through  golden  temples,  portals  red — 
Faithful  they  climb  the  holy  hill 
And  there  confront  an  empty  space 
Is  that  the  signet  of  the  grave ! 


14 


MY  R         U 


XLI. 

Some  think  they  know  and  others  doubt, 
But  who  can  offer  balm  to  all. 
If  all  were  good  and  fair  to  meet 
No  need  there  be  of  paradise, 
We  would  not  long  for  other  skies 
And  gather  fruit  from  every  tree. 

XUI. 

But  what  sad  use  the  world  has  made 
Of  nature's  boundless  plenitude. 
The  frank  and  free,  the  sane  and  true 
Are  trodden  down  by  foolish  crowds. 
Greed,  barren,  shameless,  rules  supreme, 
There  is  no  room  for  Christ  on  earth. 

XLIII. 

They  dream  of  universal  peace 

In  times  when  greed  still  cruder  grows 

Than  in  the  days  of  Skalds  and  Huns — 

Oh,  dream  of  a  fraternal  race, 

Of  happiness  to  all  of  man! 

When  will  love  stronger  prove  than  war! 

XLIV. 

The  sword  shall  break  the  sword  they  say, 
And  force  shall  strangle  force  some  day. 
Thus  men  march  toward  battles  red, 
Their  mangled  bodies  strew  the  plains, 
While  o'er  the  corpse  the  mother  wails, 
Her  firstborn  slain,  her  pride  in  life. 

XLV. 

Why  should  youth  be  killed  from  afar, 
Races  struggle  in  deadly  clutch! 
Are  no  more  fallow  fields  to  plough? 
Is   death's   scythe   not  keen   enough ! 
Oh,  mankind,  when  will  you  waken 
To  an  honor  nobler  than  death ! 


15 


SADAKICHI        HARTMANN 


XLVI. 

If  no  tread  of  marching  armies 

Answered  a  nation's  bugle  peal, 

If  young  and  old  refused  to  bear 

Arms  'gainst  brethren  they  do  not  know, 

Then  only,  in  some  dim  future 

May  we  greet  the  dawn-doves  of  peace. 

XLVII. 

One  holy  war  has  to  be  fought — 
To  make  both  man  and  woman  free : 
The  world  will  flash  with  signal  lights, 
Each  land  ring  with  its  people's  voice — 
For  from  those  crimson  rivulets 
Will  rise  a  saner  sun-warm  life. 

XLVIII. 

For  certain  things  needs  must  be  changed, 
Times  cannot  stay  so  dull  and  grey. 
Men  must  rough  a  freer  wind-blown  life, 
Women  no  longer  shed  their  bloom 
In  drudgery  for  bed  and  fare, 
And  children  age  before  their  time. 

XLIX. 

Draughts  of  pure  air,  bright  beams  of  light 
Are  free  gifts  coming  from  the  skies, 
Why  should  sad  mothers,  children  frail 
In  dark  and  gruesome  hovels  pine, 
Freeze  and  starve,  and  with  thirsty  eyes 
See  mirth  with  song  and  dance  glide  by. 


And  hunger  is  a  fearful  thing. 

It  dwarfs  the  better  part  in  man, 

Naught  but  a  withered  husk  it  leaves 

Of  some  thing  that  should  live  and  breathe. 

All  nobler  impulses  turn  ghosts, 

Haunting  waste  places  of  the  mind. 


16 


MY  R         U 


u. 

It  lifts  the  knife  to  deadly  thrusts, 
It  turns  to  brutes  all  those  it  sways, 
It  presses  torches  into  fists, 
And  peaceful  men  turn  to  revolt. 
We  stand  at  brinks  of  volcanoes 
Yet  smilingly  dot  them  with  homes. 

UI. 

What  can  we  do,  how  can  we  help ! 
The  poor  can  never  help  the  poor, 
The  rich  but  scatter  alms  derived 
From  what  is  due  the  common  herd. 
The  weed  plots  are  crowded  thick, 
Who  cuts  a  path  for  weary  feet ! 

UII. 

Oh,  the  helplessness  of  the  aged, 

Of  the  needy,  sick,  and  lonely. 

Can  you  explain  why  they  suffer, 

Must  some  lose  all  while   others  thrive? 

Can  no  one  wear  a  thornless  crown 

Without  some  hurt  to  human  kind? 

UV. 

Oh,  these  homes  of  blighted  reason, 

Who  would  not  weep  at  sights  like  these. 

Few  years  ago  they  were  like  us, 

They  worked  and  played,  they  loved  and  laughed, 

And  now — beasts  without  reason; 

Where  err  their  erstwhile  joys  and  hopes! 

LV. 

And  those  who  lurk  in  deadly  sin, 
Whose  book  of  life  reads  blood  and  gold, 
Thieves,  bandits,  outcasts,  vagrom  folks, 
Eternal  victims  of  the  law, 
Who  cannot  change,  who  have  no  chance 
To  wash  their  grimy  hands  from  crime. 


17 


SADAKICHI        HARTMANM 


LVL 

They  know  not  what  to  do  on  earth, 

Their  cup  is  filled  with  hate  and  lust. 

None  has  taught  them.     Will  you  teach  them? 

Have  you  a  larger  soul  than  they? 

You  have  drawn  a  lucky  number, 

For  them  gay  fortune  went  astray. 

LVII. 

In  foolish  kindness  some  aspire 
To  staunch  the  ever-aching  wound, 
And  so  they  teach,  and  so  they  Breach. 
How  vain  to  think  that  your  idea 
May  cure  the  vanity  of  things, 
Tis  shuttlecock  and  battledore. 

LVIII. 

How  can  I  give  right  directions 

When  I  am  a  wanderer  myself! 

Onward  I  stroll  and  ever  on 

In  my  own  way  courting  the   sun 

And   fashioning  Arcadia 

Of  passing  winds  and  flying  clouds. 

ux. 

For  my  happiness  cannot  be  yours ; 

In  humble  ecstasy  I  could  live 

In  a  hill-town,  among  roses, 

With  robins  feasting  at  my  table, 

While  woods  and  fields,  valleys  and  streams 

Around  would  be  my  promised  land. 

LX. 

You  might  not  like  such  simple  fare, 
For  you  the  winds  may  blow  too  mild — 
I  cannot  tread  your  well-paved  roads 
Though  verdant  they  may  seem  to  you. 
Each  path  leads  to  some  point  of  view, 
What  you  like  best,  is  best  for  you. 


18 


MY  RUB 


LXI. 

Sunshine  we  want  but  also  shadows, 
Each  joy  demands  its  note  of  pain, 
Each  cheek  must  know  the  fall  of  tears 
That  many  dream-swept  hopes  were  vain. 
Sorrow  digs  up  unknown  treasures 
Within  the  caverns  of  the  mind. 

LXII. 

Have  you  ever  lost  a  treasure 
More  precious  far  than  gold  or  health! 
Trailed  a  white  hearse  with  faltering  steps 
That  bore  your  dearest  dream  away, 
Sat  at  the  deathbed  of  your  mother. 
Or  closed  a  friend's  dull  staring  eyes ! 

LXIII. 

You  know,  the  frost  that  chills  the  core, 
That  all  we  love  is  naught  but  clay. 
Silent  a  boat  glides  o'er  the  Styx, 
Yet  it  leaves  light  within  its  wake ; 
As  weary  plains  grow  green  with  rain 
The  soul  expands  in  tear-starred  nights. 

LXIV. 

Tears  furrow  thought,  they  strengthen  will, 
Cleanse  the  foul  places  of  the  mind, 
Yield  soothing  light  to  ship-wrecked  hearts. 
Happy  those  who,  sorrow-driven, 
Bright  moments  wrest  from  waves  of  pain 
And  sail  their  barks  to  peaceful  ports. 

LXV. 

This  is  the  true  philosophy, 
Every  child  may  learn  the  lesson — 
Blaze  your  own  trail  the  best  you  can 
Without  trespassing  foreign  ground; 
Smile,  play,  and   sing,  and  be  alive 
To  every  blow  of  circumstance. 


19 


SADAKICHI        HARTMANN 


LXVI. 

To  meet  the  hours  as  they  come, 
Salute  the  days  as  they  pass  by, 
To  bend  your  neck  to  no  one's  yoke, 
To  be  full  master  of  yourself, 
To  do  a  kindness  when  you  can — 
That  is  the  happiness  of  life. 

LXVII. 

To  help  a  friend  in  dire  needs, 
To  speak  a  word  to  the  oporessed, 
To  think  of  things  that  help  mankind, 
To  scatter  joy,  unasked,  unblessed — 
For  knowing  minds  divine  the  rest — 
That  is  the  happiness  of  life. 

LXVIII. 

Yes,  life  is  vain,  life  is  empty, 
But  why  repeat  a  sad  refrain, 
This  echo  of  Khayyam's  quatrains, 
As  long  as  each  day  has  a  morrow, 
As  long  as  orchards  bloom  again, 
And  empty  cups  may  be  refilled. 

LXIX. 

Though  we  recall  that  days  are  short, 

Let's  make  the  passing  moments  hum. 

Bees  do  murmur  in  the  heather, 

Does   sundew  exist  only   for  them ! 

A  little  joy  today  seems  fairer 

Than  the   brightest   strongholds   of   Spain. 

LXX. 

There  are  some  joys  all  may  attain, 
To  spouse  some  cause  however  slight, 
To  be  a  host  to  loyal  friends, 
To  found  some  freeholds  of  your  own, 
Where  mothers  laugh  and  children  romp, 
And  fare  in  health  and  fragrance  there. 


20 


MY  RUB 


LXXI. 

Some  day  religion  unbiased 
May  sponsor  stern  needs  of  the  day, 
Life  grow  untrammeled  and  joyous 
Without  the  black  magic  of  law. 
Science  and  art  prove  their  uses 
And  quicken  the  heart-beats  of  all.   • 

LXXIL 

You,  people,  come  out  of  your  dreams, 
Woo  fortune  and  you  may  win  her, 
Fill  the  world  with  acts  of  good  cheer, 
Forget  grey  cares  and  ragged  toil, 
Face  bravely  the  swell  and  the  gale 
And  strike  out  for  headlands  unknown. 

LXXIII. 

Seek  beauty  and  you  will  find  her, 
Brave  the  surge  of  the  crowded  street, 
Or  rest  at  the  mountain's  green  slope 
And  commune  with  trees  and  the  birds, 
With  the  soil  and  the  mossgrown  rocks, 
And  pray  at  the  shrine  of  the  gods. 

LXXIV. 

There  are  roses  and  there  is  youth, 
There  are  joys  and  sorrows  and  love, 
Dawn  and  twilight,  the  noonday  sun, 
The  rolling  plains,  sky  and  the  sea, 
None  have  lost  their  old-time  mystery, 
Events  pass  away,  beauty  survives. 

LXXV. 

Let  us  wrest  beauty  from  all  there  is, 
Each  and  all  in  their  own  poor  way, 
And  blithely  onward  life  will  flow, 
Rare  like  a  long-drawn  summer's  eve, 
And  we'll  hail  and  bless  each  moment 
Before  it  fades  into  the  dark. 


21 


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